


Spider

by BenegodCumberchrist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenegodCumberchrist/pseuds/BenegodCumberchrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had to be dead. He saw him on the rooftop. His blood pooled at his feet. But something was wrong. Sherlock had faked his death. What about Moriarty?</p><p>He's back, and this time, Sherlock is oh, so, vulnerable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thanatosis

**Author's Note:**

> This is not finished (obviously) and I will be going back and editing a lot. Don't read this unless you're okay with stuff being changed. When it is complete, I estimate it will be around 20 chapters. Hopefully more.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was Moriarty really dead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just did some grammatical editing. apart from that, nothing has changed. Will be going through the whole book.
> 
> I wrote this when I wasn't as skilled at writing but I've gone over it and it seems better now. Some parts are difficult for me to edit.

If Sherlock could only choose one thing to remember, he'd always want to remember him.

Moriarty.

The spider who had always seemed capable of stumping Sherlock. Excepting his brother (who has in fact beaten him countless amounts of times), Moriarty came the closest out of everyone to beating him.

As much as he hated his little games, there was something exhilarating about possibly losing to him. James Moriarty had made life a 50/50 game. No one knew who'd come out on top. It really had been chance.

But James was dead, and unless he had faked his death as well, Sherlock knew Moriarty would stay that way.

Dead.

It really was hard to believe that a man would kill himself just to have the world burn around him. Then again, James would probably be that person.

But when there was a death, heartbreak was sure to follow.

Sherlock didn't think that when Jim died, he would take it to heart. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock almost missed it. The way Moriarty kept him occupied was a gift. He was on a whole different level of criminal. They were matched. It could have gone down a number of ways. Moriarty could have survived and Sherlock could've been six feet under. They could have both died, or faked their deaths. Sherlock used to lay awake at night wondering if he did in fact die with his enemy.

With Moriarty, it was all guessing. To fake your suicide, or not to fake your suicide. That was the question. No one had seen a body on the roof. They saw his blood, and his DNA, but the body had been the real mystery.

Scotland Yard had assumed one of his connections moved the body. There were too many facts that proved he blew his own brains out.

Sherlock had tried to tell everyone about his suspicions, but the police told him he was too involved to think clearly.

He's had plenty of other cases that didn't include Moriarty's games. They were all quite dull.

And the wedding. It seems that when Sherlock had 'died', John had moved on from whatever they had. He had chosen an assassin as his beloved. He had honestly thought that John would take him back. He should have told him.

He would if he could go back in time.

Back before he shot Magnussen.

Before he overdosed on the plane when he thought he was flying to his death.

Before he stood on the rooftop, talking to John before he died.

Before Moriarty shot himself.

But he couldn't, so instead he sat alone at Baker Street, in the flat he used to call home. It was not a home. It was a house. Home was where his heart was, and John didn't live here anymore.

He scolded himself. He needed a clear mind and bringing romance into his head was an amateur move.

Think!

Moriarty could have fired a blank into his head, but that would be risky. Blanks can still kill you if they're still close enough.

Assuming he took that method, there could have been a blood pack attached to his back filled with his own blood. Sherlock didn't remember them checking how old it was, or if it was frozen. A possibility perhaps. If Moriarty was stupid enough to risk the blank killing him, then maybe he wasn't in fact a worthy opponent.

If the shock-wave from the blank cartridge was close enough, it could have penetrated his skull, and sent bone fragments into his brain. His death would be a few days later.

Depending on where it hit and how deep it went, he could be alive. Barely hanging on of course. It could have gone into the Temporal Lobe which would possibly cause audio and visual difficulties, impaired memory and a different personality. A different Moriarty. What if he was dull?

That's saying if he's even alive.

And it might not even be what happened.

They were just conspiracy theories he had wondered about.

Scotland Yard hadn't let Sherlock anywhere near the case. It's been almost five years and he hadn't been able to find information about the death. They worried it would cause Sherlock 'emotional distress.' If anything, keeping him wondering was worse. So much worse.

Sherlock opened his eyes and started looking around the room wildly.

He needed Moriarty's DNA.

If Molly was willing, he could get her to test it for something that no one could fake.

You can't shoot yourself in the head without tiny bits of brain on the ground, and with his DNA from the blood sample, she could check to see if it was in fact Moriarty's brain or some unnamed corpse.

\---

At Scotland Yard, Molly casually stepped into the forensics part of the lab and found the sample. The one with his blood and brains in it. She wasn't quite sure what he wanted it for, but as usual, she was happy to comply.

\---

Sherlock waited until he got the text from Molly and when he heard the faint chime in the other room, he leapt from the chair and raced to the kitchen. 

 

I have the results. Very interesting. Do you want me to tell you now?

No. Come here. -SH

On my way now.

 

The waiting induced a coma-like state in which Sherlock stared absently at the wall, praying that the results proved his theories true

A decent amount of time later, the door knocked and Sherlock almost jumped out of his skin.

He ran to the door and pulled Molly inside. She looked startled.

"You look like you haven't slept in a week! What happened?"

Sherlock looked up at her with tired eyes and sighed out a name, "Moriarty."

He walked up the stairs, and looked at Molly, motioning for her to come up.

She gave him an uneasy look. "Has he been contacting you?"

Sherlock tried to hold back a grin. "Does that mean you think he might still be alive?"

"I don't just think so. I know so. The brains have different DNA. I had to check a few times before I could get it in my head that he was alive this whole time. It's been what? Three years? Four?" Molly rambled on about how oblivious they all were.

"Three and a half."

So he's back then, Sherlock thought. He never really left did he.

No.

He never really did.


	2. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock missed John, so he found a... replacement.

Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat, panting hard and shaking. He had let himself fall asleep. It would have happened eventually, but he could have gone a few more days if he had just paid attention to his body. If he hadn't been so foolish.

Moriarty was alive. He could be plotting his next big game, and Sherlock had fallen asleep. He had to be ready at all times. He had to expect it at all times. If Moriarty walked into his apartment while Sherlock was sleeping, he could have done something. Sure it wasn't his style, but after someone fakes their death, it was much harder to deduce them. It was unpredictable. He was unpredictable.

James hacked all of London, and Sherlock had thought it was just a copycat. It was too... Simple. Anyone with enough money or skills could have done it as a joke, or to advertise their work.

But it was Moriarty. It just took a DNA sample and logic to figure it out.

There were two ways he could handle the situation. He could either keep the information to himself, or he could tell Scotland Yard about Moriarty.

Both ways, Moriarty would be stuck on Sherlock's mind, but once the press found out, there would be a much bigger chance of James himself showing up at 221b.

There was no sense in wasting time.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Lestrade had almost kicked Sherlock out of his office, telling him he was insane, but once he had seen the proof, he went pale.

Molly had backed him up the whole time.

And John was nowhere to be seen. Why would he be? He was with her.

Obviously Anderson had believed him. Sherlock suspected he only said that because he was guilty. Anderson hadn't been the same since Sherlock had faked his death.

Sally had laughed at him, which caused her to get glares from Anderson.

The rest of the police force were not to be involved, and Lestrade had made that clear.

They've all had different theories as to where he was. Anderson said he was lying low in Canada. Sally thought Cuba. Molly assumed he had gone home to where he grew up. Lestrade had guessed he was still in England.

But Sherlock hadn't a clue.

John would have been so helpful. He liked his input. He valued it. But John wasn't here was he?

Later that day, the press had found out. Most likely from Sally or Anderson.

In a way, this would give some leverage to Sherlock, because now he had the whole world looking for him. Moriarty was an expert in avoiding people. He had done so for many years.

Sherlock wouldn't expect him to just show up. James wouldn't do that, would he?

The mind games were already starting.

\---

With each passing day, Sherlock could feel the anticipation in the air. He knew he was coming, but he didn't know when. It was like a child with a jack-in-the-box.

And one day, when it's nearing the end of its tune, it won't just pop, it will bang.

They were both very dramatic. It was like an art. Only the two of them felt the beauty of a slow burn. "Am I dead?" "Are you going to survive this?"

What most intrigued Sherlock was how. He wondered if he will be taking a cab and he driver will turn around. Moriarty.

Maybe he'll hear a knock at the door. Moriarty.

Maybe there will be bombings around the city. Moriarty.

Whatever it is, Sherlock knew it would have a flair of elegance.

He was being driven insane by just the thought of Moriarty. To have him actually be here...

He would be matched.

He needed John.

Oh god, he needed him by his side to tell him it would be okay. He needed him to guard and protect him. Sherlock didn't want to be alone for this. It was too intimidating.

He needed John, but he couldn't have him.

He needed the next best thing.

\---

Sherlock had been clean ever since he got off of the plane. It was difficult at times, but back then he had help. He had John.

This was his replacement until Sherlock could find someone better.

Someone better than John. The thought was hilarious.

The room was cold and damp. It smelled putrid and Sherlock didn't want to know why. Frankly he didn't care. He needed his escape.

The needle was filled up to the brim with God knows what. He had put it together in such a rush.

He tapped it to make sure it wasn't clogged.

It wasn't.

He pushed the needle into his skin. It stung badly, but he knew it would be over soon. He pushed the plunger down and the drug hit him hard.

It felt like a warm fire. Pleasant. Comfortable.

It was like every memory was gone and he just had air to float on.

It was, essentially, bliss.

-.-.-.-

Sometime after he passed out, he heard him.

Moriarty was there, in front of him. Singing to him.

He couldn't move. He couldn't say anything. He was so weak.

"Sherlock. Oh darling, you look so innocent."

He tried making a noise, but he wasn't sure if anything came out.

Sherlock felt a hand on his face.

"We'll have a proper meeting soon. All in good time my dear."

Sherlock tried to sit up, but he felt a strong hand push him back down.

"Get your rest. We'll have time to play later."

-.-.-.-

"Was there a man who visited me?" Sherlock asked someone next to him.

"Fuck off."

Sherlock leaned his head against the wall. The high wasn't worth the low.

He was so vulnerable right now.

It was like the worst case of sickness he could think of.

Moriarty had been here and Sherlock couldn't do anything.

He could remember Moriarty's hand on his face.

And nothing else.

-.-.-.-.-

"John," he said into the phone.

It had been a few days since he relapsed. The symptoms were disappearing, and he felt confident enough to call him again.

"Sherlock! How've you been? You never call anymore," his voice was enthusiastic.

"Moriarty came to see me."

"What?! Sherlock. Oh my god."

"Hmpf."

"I don't know what to say? What happened?" John asked.

"I wasn't awake. I heard him. I was sleeping and he talked to me."

"How do you know it wasn't a dream?"

"I was awake but I had my eyes closed and I couldn't move."

"I think you just had sleep paralysis."

"John! I was..." Sherlock trailed off. "I was high."

"Sherlock you promised me! You promised that if I left, you wouldn't do that anymore!"

"I tried! You don't think I feel guilt? It eats away at my soul every minute! I called you for help, not to get yelled at!"

"God Sherlock. Why didn't you call?"

"I didn't want to bother you and Mary."

"We'd always be glad to help. Anytime you need us."

"What do I do?" Sherlock asked.

"Don't shoot up for starters!"

"Okay. Assuming I take that advice, what next?"

"What did he say?"

"Something about meeting me soon. That's all really."

"I guess you're going to have to wait then. I'm not sure what to say really."

"Thank you John."

"Call me back sometime."

"Mhmm."

-.-.-.-

Alone is what protects me.

What a lie.

John was right.

Friends protect you.

Alone is what made him vulnerable that night Moriarty came to see him. Moriarty has a network. Sherlock had John.

The keyword being had.

Sherlock didn't have people to look out for him. To love him.

To care.

He has himself. What a cruel joke.

To say Sherlock was loved, was like saying Moriarty was dead.

It was a lie.

And soon, Moriarty would appear.

He had no one to help him. It would be him against the world.

Him and Moriarty.

The spider had faked his death, and Sherlock must make sure he dies once again.

For good.


	3. Net-Casting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes face to face with the spider.

When Sherlock heard the door knock, it was hardly a surprise. He had been expecting Moriarty since he had seen him in the drug den. It was only a matter of time.

"Come in."

He heard the door open, and someone slowly, almost reluctantly, walked up the stairs. His back was facing away from the door, but only one person would be visiting.

The footsteps got louder, and then stopped.

"Moriarty," he tasted the name on his tongue. "It's been a while."

"Yes. It has."

The voice wasn't Moriarty's.

Sherlock spun around quickly to see the one person he never suspected.

"John?"

"Oh no Sherlock. It's still me. Moriarty. I'm just using another voice." John spoke with a halt to each word. It was him, but it wasn't.

"It's the pool scene all over again. Come on, James, just show yourself."

"Don't be like that," John paused, clearly uncomfortable with what he was going to say. "Sherly."

"Moriarty, just use your own voice!"

"I'll do what I want to. Besides, this is much more fun."

John sounded unnatural. It wasn't him. It wasn't- Moriarty had gotten to him.

"I'll do whatever you tell me to. Let him go."

"It's a shame you give up so easy. Fine. You'll be hearing from me again, Sherlock. Very soon." John had a concerned look on his face.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "In person perhaps?"

"Eager to see me?"

"No."

"I am. Can't wait actually. See you soon... Love."

John breathed a sigh of relief when he had hung up. Sherlock ran over to him. John looked mad. No. More than mad, he looked pissed.

"Look, I'm-" Sherlock was cut off.

"Don't. Don't do that thing where you act like everything is okay. It's not! He..." John trailed off.

"What did he do?"

John looked at him with scared eyes. "He threatened Mary. Said he would kill her unless I..."

"I'm sorry we had to see each other under these circumstances. It must be difficult."

"I have to check if she's okay."

Sherlock nodded.

"Goodbye Sherlock. Hope you'll be alright."

"Thank you John. I hope so as well."

There wasn't much else to say. 

\---

It was sick.

Sherlock wanted to see him, and not just to punch him.

He anticipated the moment when they could finally meet.

But Sherlock had no idea why.

His mind was clouded. He couldn't think straight. It might've been the alcohol he drank, but his mind felt so heavy.

This self destructive path he was on would damage his image. The last time he had been this drunk, a client came over and his reputation crashed. But he couldn't handle this pressure. John thought it was Sherlock's fault that Moriarty threatened his family.

It was stupid. John was stupid.

Sherlock was antisocial, not blind.

John and Sherlock had something.

He could have had it all.

And then he had to fall.

Stupid.

\---

Any moment now.

The air was thick.

The text message read: Shall I come over for a visit?

Sherlock had replied: I'm waiting.

And he was.

He was waiting for an explosion. Perhaps an assassin at the door. Instead, he heard a noise outside his window. The same window he had to replace because of Moriarty's explosion fiasco.

It sounded like pop music. It was blasted through the flat. James Moriarty must have been inside. There was a beat, and the lyrics reminded him of the criminal.

I can tell that you miss me. Your eyes give it away. I know you can't resist me, so tell me tell me tell me girl that you're listening. I need to know that you care. You know I'm dying to feel it.

So show me

Show me

Show me that you miss me.

Sherlock felt like he was at a concert, and the musician he paid to see was about to appear. It was interesting to say the least, but he wanted an actual challenge, not some half-time performance.

He looked out the window. Speakers.

"Alright James. Show yourself already," Sherlock mumbled, looking out the window for a sign of he criminal mastermind. He felt a breath on the back of his neck. Sherlock didn't move.

"Honey," Moriarty's lips brushed against Sherlock's neck as he spoke. "I'm home."

Sherlock still kept his position. "Not as dramatic as I thought it would be."

He felt a breath of air hit his shoulder. A small chuckle. "Were you hoping for a murder? I could set you up with one."

"How did you survive?" Sherlock knew he wouldn't tell him, but he didn't have anything else to ask.

James reached around to grab Sherlock's face and turn it towards him.

"Why would I tell you?"

James didn't let go. His hands lingered on Sherlock's face, and Sherlock was the one to pull away.

"Just making conversation."

He felt the warmth of the criminal's body disappear, and he was slightly disappointed.

"It's a shame I have to go soon."

"It seems you're keeping busy then," Sherlock said.

James scoffed. "I'm spending time on you aren't I? More than John is."

Sherlock looked around the flat. He tried thinking about something else. Anything other than James "Why are you doing this? Surely you have something better to do."

"I could kidnap John, or maybe Mary. What about that lovely baby on the way? I could-"

Sherlock knocked him out cold.

-.-.-.-

This was temporary.

Only until Sherlock could get the information he needed.

Moriarty was tied to the chair. His face was stained a scarlet red and there was a thick smell of iron in the room.

Surely James knew this was a possibility. Did he just not care?

He cared.

Maybe he wanted this.

"Punch me again, Sherlock."

"You aren't a masochist."

James grinned. "Want to test that theory?"

Sherlock stepped closer. "Why are you like this?"

"I want you to punch me. Hard. Draw blood. I want you to see me bleed."

"This isn't about what you want!"

"Oh," he smiled. "But it is."

Sherlock's fist cracked when it hit his jaw.

"See? I get what I want."

It was a control technique. James took over the situation. He made it seem like no matter what Sherlock did, it would be enjoyed. He didn't want to be punched, but if he acted like it was desired, then it would annoy Sherlock enough for him to give up.

"Then let me give you some more," Sherlock said, crashing his fist into James' face.

James didn't wince. It was unsettling.

Sherlock picked up a knife and pressed it against James' skin.

"Cut me! Do it."

Sherlock put the knife down on the table.

"I have something much better in mind."

Sherlock walked out of the room.

-.-.-.-.-

He hadn't been in there for four days.

Sherlock opened the living room door to smell urine and sweat. The smell filled his nose and he gagged.

"Finally came back to see me? I could use a drink you know..." Moriarty wheezed.

Sherlock walked to the kitchen and found a glass of water. He looked in the cupboard and found some crackers he hadn't bothered to eat. Then he walked back to the chair where Jim gave him an unsettling smile.

"Eat."

"Kind of need my hands for that, dear," he said, weakly tugging on the handcuffs.

Sherlock held the bread up to Moriarty's mouth.

"Mmfph!" he groaned.

"Oh shut up."

Sherlock held the bread up to James' mouth.

"I know you're hungry."

James grinned and licked Sherlock's hand.

"Are you hungry or not?"

"Fine."


End file.
